by Trish Morey
His gut told him he was headed for a fall.
Too restless to sleep, he eased his arm out from under her neck. She stirred and muttered an unintelligible protest and slipped back into sleep the moment her head was back on the pillow.
He padded to the windows and looked out—the city of Sydney lay dressed up for the night in lights of every colour and the harbour shone silver under a fat moon.
He was a fool. He should have done what she’d asked. Relieved her of her virginity. And then walked away.
Wrong.
He should have left her well alone, because this was always bound to happen.
He’d seen the looks she’d given him when she thought he wasn’t looking. The longing. The need.
And now she expected to curl against him and sleep with her head upon his shoulder. It didn’t matter that for that first moment when he woke, with her warm body in his arms and her head curled against his shoulder and her breath softly fanning his chest, that he might wish for something more.
Because there could be no more.
And the longer it went on, the worse it would get, and the ache in his hip would never go away.
He so needed that ache to go away.
Which left him no choice.
He would just have to leave. Get them to sign the contract and go home. His time working in the orchard was nearly up. Surely a week or two would make no difference? He’d more than earned his keep.
Besides, the longer he stayed, the more the circumstances that had brought him here niggled at his psyche. It had been easy to come and present a contract to strangers and expect it to be signed, not caring one way or another whether it was the right deal for them or not, but he’d come to like Gus and respect him, and if truth be told, he liked Holly too, maybe a little too much. He didn’t like this feeling that he’d come here because he’d had to, not because he’d ever given a damn who’d been awarded the contract.
He looked back at the sleeping woman in his bed, an ache in his chest now, along with his hip. It would end. It would have to. But first they would have tomorrow. It was her day after all, and he’d planned a surprise to take her mind off her nerves.
One more day and one more night.
Then Sunday he’d take her home and tell them both he had to leave. Gus would understand.
And Holly had always known this was temporary.
And one day she would thank him for it.
If it had taken her fifteen minutes to wriggle out of the boa constrictor two days before, it was taking twice that to get into it. Franco wandered out of the bathroom, lazily tying a black bow tie at his neck. ‘We’ve got ten minutes, Holly.’ His feet and his hands stopped dead. ‘What the hell is that?’
‘A body shaper thingy,’ she said, feeling yesterday’s day spa serenity slipping away, annoyed that he wanted them ready by five when the cocktail party didn’t start until six and the Opera House was only a stone’s throw away. The hairdresser and make-up artist had taken up the rest of the afternoon since lunch and she would have dearly loved five minutes without people prodding at her to allow her to catch her breath.
‘What’s it for?’
‘So I don’t bulge. Bulging is verboten apparently.’
‘Take it off.’
‘No,’ she said, still struggling to get the thing up to her thighs, wondering how she was going to get the rest of herself into it. ‘Apparently it does wonders for my figure.’
He put his hand to her arm to stop her struggles. ‘You don’t need that thing. You don’t bulge. Your figure is perfect.’
‘But—’
‘Perfect, Holly, just the way it is. I know.’
She blinked up at him. ‘What if the dress doesn’t fit?’
‘Of course it will fit. You tried it on before, didn’t you?’
‘But only with this thing underneath!’
He slapped her on her behind. ‘Not a problem. You’ve always got that gown from Betty’s.’
And she slapped him right back. ‘You may live to regret saying that.’
The dress fitted perfectly, of course, just as he knew it would. Just like he’d known she would look amazing if she made a little more use of what she had.
But when he’d done the zipper up to the top and she turned to show him, he just hadn’t realised how very perfect, how very amazing, she could be.
She was, quite simply, a goddess, her hair tangled into a sweeping asymmetrical style that balanced the sparkling clasp on her shoulder. Diamond earrings and a shred of sparkle at her wrist were her only other adornment. She didn’t need anything more, not with those turquoise eyes and that dress conspiring to bring him undone. He’d always fantasised about peeling her out of a gown that was worthy of her and he wondered how much time they had to spare before the surprise he had planned for her.
A glance at his watch made him frown. Nowhere near enough for what he had planned. Their last night together. Strange, to think that.
But it would be a good one.
Her eyes told him he was taking far too long in putting voice to how he thought she looked and any second now her teeth would be working on those lips that the make-up artist had taken an age to get absolutely perfect and he mustn’t ruin, no matter how tempted. He tilted her chin, pressed his lips softly to hers and drew back a little. ‘You look beautiful, Holly.’ She trembled a little at that, her eyes suddenly wide, afraid. ‘You’re not worried about tonight, are you?’ After a blink of her turquoise eyes she gave a small nod of her head.
‘There’s no need,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens tonight, you’ll always be a winner.’
Words, she thought as he opened the door to the suite for her. Pretty, empty words. Just like the heated looks from his smoky eyes. Ultimately empty. Devoid of substance.
She knew this for a fact.
She knew it was what she’d agreed to.
And still it was impossible not to wish it was real.
Impossible not to fear that it was already too late …
‘Where are we going?’ she asked when he led her towards the stairwell rather than the elevator like she’d been expecting.
He smiled enigmatically. ‘Wait and see.’ He put a hand under her elbow as he guided her carefully up the stairs, her hands busy keeping the hem of her skirt above her toes. He opened the door at the top. ‘Your carriage awaits.’
She laughed when she realised what he’d done. Another surprise. ‘We’re going in that?’
‘We are,’ he said, taking her arm in his, leading her to the helicopter, ‘via the scenic route.’
The smiling pilot organised headsets and Holly was grateful that Franco carefully fitted hers around her hair. And then they were ready and the chopper blades started rotating and her stomach flipped as they lost contact with the building and rose up high, soon soaring over the skyline of one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Somehow Sydney had turned on the perfect day, or maybe Franco had organised that too, the sky a perfect cloudless blue and the sun dancing on the waters of the harbour until it sparkled like the clasp on her dress.
‘So this is why we had to be ready so early?’ she shouted to Franco.
‘Surprised?’
And she was about to nod, but then life had been one surprise after another since Franco had blown into her life such a few short weeks ago. ‘Not really,’ she said with a shake of her head in case her voice didn’t carry, and she squeezed the hand that had taken hers in his as soon as they’d taken off. She wondered how many more surprises he had in store for her, knowing that there was one surprise he wouldn’t be springing and she was mad to hope he might.
‘Look,’ he said, pointing out her window, and there it was, the iconic Sydney Harbour Bridge. They skimmed over the top before turning for another view and then heading along the harbour, past the Opera House on the right where tonight’s award ceremony would be held, and out towards the heads.
This was the way to see Sydney, Holly thought, as it was all there, all la
id out below them—the beautiful gardens, the tiny bays, the mansions lining the shore and the sandy beaches.
She imagined they’d return to the hotel at the end, but no, the helicopter put down at a helipad adjacent to the Opera House where he handed her out and they dipped low under the blades.
They still had a little time so they stood by the harbour edge awhile, taking in a different view of the harbour, from a different perspective, and Holly knew that even if she didn’t win tonight, this day would still remain one of the highlights of her life.
‘How was that?’ he asked. ‘Do you feel better now?’
She looked up at him as he kissed her softly on the mouth and realised that he’d done this all for her, to make her blood fizz with exhilaration instead of fretting with nerves.
And he’d succeeded.
Because the exhilaration was there.
And the nerves were gone.
But she’d been right to fear.
Because as his lips pressed his sweet kiss on her, she realised with heart-thudding certainty that it was already too late.
She’d fallen in love with Franco Chatsfield.
Somehow she made it through the cocktail reception. Somehow she made it through the presentation of the finalists, though she knew her speech thanking Gus had sounded stiff and jerky.
‘You’re a finalist in one of Australia’s most prestigious wine awards, you’re allowed to be nervous,’ Franco told her when she rejoined him after her speech. ‘But don’t worry, you looked so beautiful up there, I don’t think anybody noticed. Now relax and have a good time. This is your night, Holly Purman.’
She smiled but how could she relax when she had just made one of life’s great discoveries, only to know that she’d made one of life’s greatest blunders?
She’d fallen in love with the man she couldn’t have.
She was doomed.
She’d never really expected to win. That had allowed her to talk to the people at her table and eat the meal that had been put in front of her even though it might have been made of sawdust.
So when she heard her name it didn’t twig, not until the people at her table cheered and Franco had flung his arms around her and the news permeated the fog that was her brain.
‘You won, Holly!’ Franco said. ‘You won!’
And the shock restarted her heart and cleared the fog in her head and she stood on shaky legs to the auditorium’s applause, her hand over her mouth, wondering what the hell she was going to say now she’d already thanked Gus. And she found one thing she could say that might not end the pain when Franco left, but it might at least let her cauterise the wound with one last night of pleasure.
Someone was there to hand her up the stairs to the podium and she didn’t trip, she didn’t fall, she made it there in one piece and received her beautiful award, a stylised golden vine on an earth-brown timber base.
Then it was time to make her acceptance speech.
Franco watched her with a mixture of pride and relief. She deserved the award, she truly did. One part of him was happy for her. But she would be even busier now with interviews and television appearances in the coming weeks as the news of her win got out. It was a good time for him to disappear.
He heard her thank the audience and the Wine Association and give thanks to Gus once again for teaching her everything she knew.
He heard her pay tribute to her fellow finalists, all of whom were worthy winners.
And then she paused, and like everyone else in the room Franco waited, and saw her eyes find him in the crowd. She hugged the award to her chest. ‘This is turning out to be quite some year,’ she started. ‘A few weeks ago Purman Wines had an offer some might say was too good to refuse.’
Franco’s legs pushed him up higher in his seat.
‘So, naturally, I turned it down.’
The audience laughed. All except Franco, who wondered what was coming, every part of him on tenterhooks.
‘Luckily for us, the person making the offer was insistent and wouldn’t go away. Luckily for us, he stuck around. It’s too early just yet to give details of this offer, but it’s a very good deal and we will be signing with this group this coming week, probably as soon as I get home, so you’ll hear about it very soon.’
Yes! It was perfect. He’d have the deal and there would be no reason for him to stay any longer.
She was smiling at him now and he was smiling right back.
‘I’d like to thank this person for his offer and for his refusal to go home when I demanded it—’ more laughter here ‘—but most of all I’d like to thank him for his faith in our wines and his determination to acquire them, because ultimately, what better compliment can a winemaker ask?’
Her words grated deep into his senses, the euphoria he’d felt just a moment ago already slipping away in the wounds.
Faith in her wines?
Determination to have them?
Yes to the second. But the second was in no way related to the first. The second had far more to do with another motivation that had nothing to do with her wines. They could have tasted like home brew, for all he cared, and still he would have signed them up, because that’s what Christos wanted if Franco was to be assured the cash flow from the Chatsfield Family Trust. And so that’s what Christos would get.
Up on the podium, Holly nestled the award alongside her shoulder. ‘I hope this award tonight goes some way to vindicate that faith and resolve to have Purman Wines served at his tables. Thank you.’
Franco felt sick to the core.
She left the podium to a standing ovation. People at the table were pumping his hand, conversation was buzzing with speculation, and all he wanted to do was disappear. Hide. Vanish. He’d been here under false pretences the entire time. And there was no time to process that because Holly was back and he had to perform, to do the right thing, so he folded her in his arms and kissed her cheek and congratulated her. He didn’t know whether the resistance he felt in her body was due to some failure in his efforts or because she was still buzzing from the win or something else.
It was hours before they made it back to the hotel but it was still not long enough for Franco’s liking. There’d been congratulatory drinks and then an afterparty hosted by a nearby wine bar and all the time he’d dreaded being back in the suite, to the tatters of the night he’d had planned.
And all the time the guilt had weighed down on him, like a weight dropped from a great height upon his chest. It had been too easy, he realised, too easy all along. He’d had the Purmans’ agreement in his pocket weeks ago, all he had to do was the time, and the cash flow from the Chatsfield Family Trust would be his.
But since that first day when she’d accused him of being a messenger boy, he’d never considered how Holly saw his part in this deal. He’d worked in the vineyard to prove he was the kind of person they could do business with. The kind of person they could trust.
But it had always been about the money.
Nothing had changed since then.
It was still all about the money.
And he was still a messenger boy.
And he hated himself for it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘I CAN’T BELIEVE it,’ Holly said as she put the award down in the centre of the dining table and admired it some more. ‘I still can’t believe I won. I may have to take this to bed with me. I hope you don’t mind.’
Franco didn’t mind. He figured she might as well sleep with something. It sure as hell wouldn’t be him.
It couldn’t be him. Not now.
‘You deserve it, Holly.’ He could say that honestly, even if his voice, like his spirit, was flat.
‘And Gus was just so excited when I rang and told him.’ She looked at him and smiled and for the first time he noticed the tautness around her eyes and the tension around her mouth.
‘He must be very proud.’
‘He is.’ A pause, and then, ‘You haven’t mentioned my speech at all.’
&
nbsp; Ah. There was good reason for that. ‘It was a good speech,’ he conceded. ‘People laughed. You did well.’
‘And? I thought you’d be a bit more excited. You’ll have your contract signed. You’ll be free to go home like you always wanted.’
He looked at her. It might have been the end of a long night filled with celebration and her hair and make-up might be a little less perfect than when she started, but yet she was still utterly gorgeous.
It struck him then what he was giving up when he left. He was going to lose Holly from his life. Forever. And his gut twisted at the notion of never seeing her again. But what right did he have to want for anything else?
What right did he have to hope for anything else?
None at all.
Holly stepped closer to him, took one of his hands and placed it against one perfect breast. ‘So, don’t you want to celebrate? While you’re still here? While you still can.’
In spite of himself, his fingers squeezed, and he closed his eyes and ached to do more. It would be so easy to do more, so easy to blot it all out and lose himself in pleasure, but he was already living a lie, and at some stage the lies had to stop.
It was time for the pretence to stop.
He opened his eyes to see tears in hers and he ached for all the hurt and he knew this couldn’t go on.
‘Forget the contract,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Tear it up. Throw it on the fire. I don’t care. Just don’t sign it.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Don’t sign it. Because your speech was good,’ he said, pulling his hand from her, ‘but it was flawed.’
She blinked up at him. ‘Why?’
‘Because you credited me with too much. Because I never came here because I had faith in Purman Wines. I never stayed because I had faith in Purman Wines.’
Her eyes were wide with confusion. ‘What?’
‘I came here for money. Purely and simply for money. Because if I didn’t get your signature on the dotted line, I’d be cut off for ever from the cash flow from the Chatsfield Family Trust and I couldn’t afford to lose it. So I had no choice. I had to get you to sign.’